Tyger, Tyger
by Arileo
Summary: Moriarty is down but not out. Now Sherlock's friends and family must gather together to play an even more sadistic and twisted game against a deadly predator.  SLASH
1. Silent shadows

BANG

Pain.

Pain the likes of which Sherlock had never felt before. Not even the agony of withdrawal could top it, not even the pain of (-no-dont-think-about-that-no-no-dont-cant-wont-).

Darkness.

He awoke.

Sherlock struggled to make sense of his situation, but the pain made it difficult. He was on his side, lying on cold cement. He was wet. He _hurt._

What had happened?

Oh yes.

The pool. Moriarty. The bomb.

John!

Where? Where was he? John?

Sherlock tried to get up, to call out, anything, only to find he couldn't move. His body, treacherous thing that it was, refused to respond.

There was someone there. Someone was talking.

"Bloody hell! I can't believe the crazy bastard actually did it!"

Who? He didn't know that voice.

With some effort, Sherlock managed to open his eyes. His vision was blurred and dark at the edges, but he was able to make out two people, standing not too far away.

"Jay-sus. Would ya look at this mess. Never thought I'd be glad to run outta Semtex," the voice continued.

One shadow knelt down, their back to Sherlock.

"How's it look? Boss still breathing?"

If the second person replied, it was too soft for Sherlock to hear. But he must have, because the first continued.

"Goddamn, we should be so lucky. Best get outta here mate, there's no telling when the coppers might show."

The first person looked around the pool.

"Hey, Moran!. Look over there!" He pointed right at Sherlock. "I think the crazy bastard's still alive!"

Another quiet moment as the second man answered, again too quiet for Sherlock's ears.

"What do you mea… hey wai-"

BANG

The man fell backwards and didn't move.

The second man came closer, moving on silent feet, looming over him like a shadowy Grim Reaper.

He couldn't see the man's face.

For a moment, the grey form was still, then something, a booted foot, came down on his outstretched hand.

Somehow, Sherlock found the strength to scream in pain as the second man's heel ground down on his fingers.

Finally, the pain lessened, and Sherlock opened eyes he hadn't realized he'd shut.

He still couldn't make out the quiet man's face, but the gun aimed at his head was fairly clear.

The click of the hammer being drawn back was almost deafening.

"SHERLOCK!"

BANG


	2. Game Restart

When Jim awoke to find himself in a hospital bed, head aching worse than that time he'd tried to out drink half a Rugby team, with one arm in a sling and the other cuffed to the railing, he swore.

Not because he'd been caught, but because he now owed Seb a pair of vintage pistols.

As he leaned back and waited for the fun to start, he bet himself fifty quid that the first words out of Seb's mouth would be 'I told you so.'

"Sherlock!"

John bolted upright, regretting it immediately as pain shot through his head.

"John! Take it easy, that was a nasty hit you took." Small, gentle hands pushed him back down.

He turned, surprised to find Harry sitting beside him. He was in a hospital, he realized, a private room even.

"Harry? What are you doing here?" he asked.

"What am I doing here?" His sister looked ready to punch him, "You were blown up, John! Blown up! In the middle of bloody London!"

"Don't shout, I've got a headache," John moaned.

"I will bloody well shout as much as I want to, John Watson! For months, the only way I've been able to contact you is through your stupid blog, and then I get a phone call at two in the AM saying you were in an explosion!"

"Look, we can talk about this later-"

"You bet your arse we will."

"- But first I need to know what's happened."

"I was hoping you could tell me."

Lestrade came up behind Harry, looking more exhausted than John had ever seen him, Donovan at his side.

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked.

"In surgery," Lestrade replied. "It doesn't look good. He took a bullet to the chest. Nearly drowned in his own blood before we got to him."

John felt something in his chest break when he heard that.

"I woke up after the bomb went off. Someone, must have been one of the snipers, was standing over Sherlock with a gun. I tackled him right as he pulled the trigger. We fought a bit, then he pistol-whipped me. Should have been faster."

"John, I need to know what went on in that pool."

"Alright," John pushed himself up against the headboard, more slowly this time. "Can you give us a moment Harry?"

"John-"

"Please."

Harry glared at him, but stood up and left the room.

"Firstly, Moriarty. He was there. 'Bout my height, short dark hair, brown eyes, expensive suit. Did you get him?"

"We cuffed everyone we didn't recognize. That one is…" Lestrade glanced over at Donovan.

Donovan checked her notebook, "Two floors down. Dislocated shoulder, mild concussion, fractured leg. He's not going anywhere."

John sighed in relief. At least that had gone right.

Taking a deep breath, he began to talk. He told them everything. He told them about being grabbed off the street and being shoved into a bomb vest. About being forced to pretend he was Moriarty. About Jim and his threats. About the snipers.

About Sherlock's solution.

"And he shot the bomb?" Donovan asked incredulously. "That was his brilliant idea? Where in the hell did the Freak get a gun from anyways?"

"It's mine. My service pistol. And no, I don't have a permit for it." Any other day, he would be worried that they'd run ballistics on it, but today he had bigger worries. "And as for Sherlock's plan? I'd like to know what you'd have done in that situation."

Whatever Donovan was going to say, she was cut off by a warning hand from the Inspector.

"Save it. What about the one who shot Sherlock, did you get a good look at him?"

John shook his head, "No. It all happened so fast. He was about my height I think, and was wearing a grey hoodie."

"That's it?"

"Yeah. Sorry I can't be more help. How's the clean up going?"

"We got there as quickly as we could. As soon as I heard the address, I knew you two had to be involved. We caught two snipers trying to sneak out of the building, and another two inside who must have been stunned by the explosion. We found another on by the pool near you and Sherlock, bullet to the head. None of them sound like the guy you fought."

"So he's still out there?"

"We've got Moriarty," Donovan pointed out.

"Yeah, just… I've got a bad feeling about that guy."

"We'll get him. You rest up. I'll send your sister back in."

"Do you have to?"

Lestrade laughed and patted him on the shoulder. "Sorry. That woman's already verbally assaulted me once today. I'm not giving her reason to do it again."

John felt a brief smile break out on his own face, but only a brief one.

"Lestrade… Sherlock…"

"As soon as I know, you'll know. I promise."

As the two police officers turned to leave, a nurse entered.

"Excuse me? Is there an Inspector Lestrade here?" she asked.

"That's me."

"Err, I'm sorry, it's just that… this was left at the desk for you," she handed him a manila envelope.

Cautiously, he opened it, removing a pink iPhone.

For a moment, the room was silent, then the phone is Lestrade's hand sprang to life.

_Beeeeep._

_Beeeeep._

_Beeeeep._

_Beeeeep._

_Beeeeep._


	3. Nine Little Words

**A/N: **For some reason, the Harry voice in my head sounds suspiciously like a young Jackie Tyler

* * *

Gregory Lestrade had been on the job for a long time, and had seen a lot of things. He had faced off against a mad bomber holding a tour bus full of small children hostage. He'd been dangled over the side of a 10 story building by a would-be cat-burglar. He had taken on a katana-wielding psychopath armed with nothing but a wooden board. He'd overseen cases involving everything from axe-murderers to occult rituals.

But nothing was quite as terrifying as the nine words that appeared on that little screen.

_Welcome to Round Two. This time, everyone can play._

"You!" He shouted at the nurse. "Who dropped this off? Did you see him?"

"What is it?" she asked, "What's wrong?"

"Did you seen him?" He demanded again.

"No," she said, wringing her hands nervously. "I'm sorry, I wasn't really paying attention, I've been working odd hours all week. He was wearing a grey hooded jacket, that's all I can remember. I'm sorry."

"Right, what's your name?"

"K-Kathy."

"Kathy, I need you to stay here for a moment. Donovan, get a statement."

"And where are you going?" the Sergeant asked.

"To have a little chat with our friend downstairs."

"I'm coming with you," John said.

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

Something in John's face told Lestrade that arguing would be useless, and that nothing short of a sedative and restraints would keep the doctor in bed.

"John? What's all the shouting about?" John's sister came running in, a doctor hot on her heels.

"Later Harry," John carefully began to haul himself upright. Nurse Kathy and the doctor tried to stop him, but he simply shrugged them off.

"Just what do you think you're doing? Get back in bed!" Harry yelled. "You just got blown up you stupid git!"

"Not now Harry."

"Goddamnit John wi-"

"HARRY!"

The two siblings glared at each other in silence.

"I'm a doctor," he insisted, "I know what I'm doing. My injuries aren't serious. Now would someone mind getting me some bloody pants?"

Finally, the doctor acquiesced and disconnected John from his IV, complaining about his fellow practitioners and what sort of patients they made the whole time.

The two of them probably made for a rather comic image as they strode determinedly down the hallway. John in scrubs and a bathrobe, gauze wrapped around his head and covered in bruises and scratches, and Lestrade with his hair sticking everywhere and rumpled suit that he'd worn for two days straight, and both still covered in soot and dirt from the explosion site. Any other day, he might have laughed, but not today.

Lestrade jammed his finger impatiently on the elevator button, bloody thing seemed to be taking forever.

When the doors finally did open, he rushed in without looking, only to bounce off a rather solid chest. He glanced up in surprise to find a very tall (taller than Sherlock even, how often did that happen?) and strangely familiar looking man in a very expensive suit glaring down his nose at him.

He opened his mouth to (apologize? Tell the man to move? He wasn't really sure) but John beat him to it.

"Mycroft! Where the hell have you been?"

"Doctor Watson," the man said, "I see you have come out of this relatively unscathed. Now if you don't mind, could you please tell me just what exactly has happened to my brother?"

Brother? Who's… Oh hell.

There were two of them.


	4. Facing the Beast

It was three determined men who marched into Moriarty's room.

Lestrade had tried to protest at the presence of Sherlock's brother, but the man pulled out an ID that made his blood run cold.

That was why he'd looked familiar. Not because of his relation to Sherlock, but because Lestrade had seen him before, lurking in the shadows around cases that were inevitably taken from him by the higher-ups, deemed above his pay grade, or erased completely.

The man in the bed, so unassuming, smiled widely at them. "Well, well, hello Johnny boy! Detective Inspector Lestrade, how nice to finally meet you. And if it isn't Big Brother, in person no less. But where could Sherlock be, I wonder?"

"Bloody sonnuva-"

Lestrade barely grabbed John in time to stop him from lunging at the man.

"Easy, we need him in one piece," he told the doctor.

Moriarty laughed, "Temper, temper Johnny darling."

The inspector held up the pink phone with it's message. "Talk."

"Ooh, you've gotten my little present already? I must have been out for longer than I thought."

"I want answers."

"No, no, that's not how the game is played. I can't just _give_ you the answers, you've got to work for it."

"Oh for fuck's sake," Lestrade muttered.

"Not that I could tell you even if I wanted to. I promised someone else that they could play DM this time. They might decide to change the rules."

"Mr. Moriarty," Holmes said, "I take it you are intending for this little game of yours to ultimately culminate in your escape. I can assure you, it will not."

Moriarty laughed again. "Well, I hope for your sake that you're as good as you think you are. Now then, if you don't mind, I think I'm going to take a little nap. Surviving explosions takes a lot out of me."

"You know, it really would be in your best interests if you simply dropped this childish behavior and co-operated," Holmes replied. "These little games of yours may have kept Sherlock on his toes, but I am not my brother."

"No," Moriarty smiled even wider, a strange sort of reptilian look in his eyes that sent chills down Lestrade's spine. "You're not."

Holmes glowered at the man in the bed for a moment, then turned on his heels and left the room.

"What? Holmes?" John darted after the man, Lestrade right behind him.

"That's it?" the doctor demanded. "You're just going to leave him there?"

"There is nothing he can tell us at the moment," Holmes replied. "What we need to do is find whoever he has running his operation in his stead. Moriarty wouldn't trust this to just anyone."

"So he's got a second in command," Lestrade said, "Someone he trusts to get him out of police custody instead of simply taking over and leaving 'im to rot."

"Precisely."

"Great. We're looking for someone a criminal mastermind trusts with his life. That narrows the suspect list down considerably." John muttered

He opened his mouth to say something else, but was cut off by the approach of Donovan.

"Inspector."

"Donovan, what have you got for me?"

"Not much," the woman shook her head sadly. "The nurse couldn't remember anything about the man who dropped off the package, just that he was on the small side and wore a grey hoodie."

John cursed at that description, and Lestrade couldn't blame him.

"Did you have someone check the security tapes?" Holmes asked.

Donovan frowned at him, and turned to Lestrade questioningly.

"Just answer the question, Donovan," he told her.

"There are no tapes. Apparently, the security system in this place is undergoing repairs. Most of the cameras are down. We've got a brief shot of what might be our man entering an elevator with the package, but that's it.

John threw up his hands in frustration. "Well that's just bloody brilliant. Meanwhile, we're stuck here waiting for the bloody phone to ring."

"Perhaps not. I understand that you have four of Moriarty's henchmen in custody?" Holmes asked.

Lestrade nodded.

"Very well then, I shall have my people handle it."

"Now wait just a minute," the Inspector protested, "This is my case. I'm not just letting you take over."

"Detective Inspector, this is no time to be territorial."

"It's not territory damnit. I've been on this case from the start, and I intend to see it through. Besides, the second phone was sent to me, so it looks like I'm involved whether you like it or not."

Holmes rolled his eyes, and sighed. "Very well."

"Look Mr. Holmes," he saw Donovan blanch out of the corner of his eye at the name, "I don't know who you work for, and I'm pretty sure I don't want to know, but this is not getting swept up under some rug, and my suspects are not going to disappear. If you really want to do something useful, how about 'your people' do something about those security cameras?"

"I believe that can be arranged."

* * *

A/N: I apologize profusely for taking so long with this one guys, but let's just say Freshman English bites and leave it at that.


	5. It Begins

They were halfway down the hallway when the phone rang.

Quickly, all four ducked down a side hall. Lestrade took a deep breath, and answered.

"Lestrade."

"_He-llo Detec-tive Ins-pec-tor Les-trade. Are you ready to pla~ay?"_ The low, almost whispered words on the phone were altered, sent through some sort of filter, but it did little to hide the strange rhythm they were spoken with.

"Who is this?" Lestrade demanded.

"_You will see. Per-hapsss… Hmmm, I wonder, who is here? Who is listening? Who is with us, Detec-tive Inspect-or? Is Mr. Mycroft listen-ing, I wonder?"_

"Yes," Mycroft answered, frowning at the phone.

"_Very good, ve-ry good. And is John Watson he~re?"_

"Yes," John said.

"_Very good. Hello John Watson, hello. I was ho-ping I did not hit you too hard, I was. Hmmm…I wanted to play with you pro-per-ly."_

For a moment, John saw red. This was the man in grey, the man from the pool, the man who'd shot Sherlock. If he'd only been faster…

A hand on his shoulder snapped him out of it. He looked up to see Sally Donovan staring at him in concern.

"Enough chit chat," Lestrade said. "What is the game?"

"_The same as befo~ore, for the most part. I will give you a-clue, and yo-u must use it to solve the puzzle. If you solve the puzzle be-fore the time has run-out, you win the round. If you do not, some-one, will di~e. Many someones per-hapsss."_

"And there's five rounds. So what's the first clue?" the Inspector asked.

"_I will send it, to the-phone, when I am done. Because there-are so~o many players, the game is much harder, much harder. You will ha~ve… hmmm… I wonder… 20 hours sounds ve-ry-good."_

"You won't win," John growled. "I'm going to get you. So help me god, you bastard…"

"_Hmmm," _the voice replied, sounding amused. _"Per-hapsss…We-shall-see. Our first meet-ing was so ve-ry quick. Too bad, too bad. We shall have-to meet aga~ain, like our cle-ver friends did… Good-bye."_

_click_

The phone beeped again before John realized the man in grey had hung up.

"It's a photo," Lestrade said. "Anyone recognize her?"

He held up the phone to show them the face of someone John had hoped to never see again.

"That's… General Shan."

"Of the Black Lotus?" asked Mycroft.

"Yes, how did you…" John thought about who he was talking to, and decided it was better not to finish his question.

"I heard about that from Dimmock," Lestrade said, "But didn't she get away? Don't tell me we have to track her down."

"If she's still in Britain, it won't be difficult," Mycroft replied, "Now that we know what she looks like."

Something niggled at the back of John's mind, "But what's the connection? The other cases all turned out to have been orchestrated by Moriarty."

"As was this one, no doubt," Mycroft said. "Mr. Moriarty may very well have organized the Black Lotus' entry into the country."

Something was still wrong, something the man said…

"Oh god," John said, "I'm an idiot. Shan isn't the clue, not the only one."

"What?"

"You heard him. He said he we'll have to meet again, like our clever friends did. Like Sherlock and Moriarty did. The pool wasn't the first place they met! It was at Bart's. He works at Bart's, in IT. I was there!"

"You mean you met him before? And didn't say anything?" Lestrade asked.

"We didn't know it was him!" John answered, "He was disguised as-"

Oh Christ, how could he have forgotten.

"Molly Hooper! She works in the morgue. You have to find her. Get her to tell you everything she knows about her friend Jim." Spinning on his heels, John darted for the elevator, only to run smack into-

"Harry!"

"John, what in the hell are you doing?" his sister demanded, hands on her hips.

"Harry, I do _not_ have time for this," he told her.

"Oh yes you do. You were _blown up_ John, and now you're running off into God-knows-what kind of trouble. I won't have it."

"You won't have it?" John asked incredulously, "What the hell gives you the right to tell me what I can and can't do?"

"I'm your sister. It's my job to look out for you when you're being a suicidal idiot."

Had he really heard her properly? His ears were starting to buzz a little, so it was hard to tell.

"Harriet. Get. Out. Of. My. Way. NOW."

"No. Let the police handle whatever mess your Sherlock has gotten himself into. You shouldn't be running around like this. It's not right."

John's vision went red again.

"Are you seriously going to lecture me on how to live my life? You?"

"What's so wrong about that?" Harry demanded.

"You really don't see it?" John asked her, "You don't see anything wrong with a woman who had a great job, a gorgeous house, and a beautiful wife, the kind of life most people can only dream of, and threw it all away because she was too cowardly to admit she had a problem, lecturing someone else on how to live their life?"

The red began to darken.

Harry flinched. She was his sister. He'd always gone easy on her before now, but not anymore.

"I'm only going to say it one more time. Move out of the way, or I'll make you."

Harry faltered for a moment, trying to meet his angry glare, and then stepped aside.

John only had a few brief seconds to cherish his victory, before the red-turned-black swept over his vision entirely and he was overwhelmed.

The last thing he heard was Harry screaming his name.

A/N: Nother cliffie, I'm evil like that. Also, a note on Moran's speech patterns, (let's face it, at this point I think we all know the man in grey is Moran) Imagine the toymaker from Kuroshituji talking through a voice changer, and you've got what I was trying for.


	6. The First Clue

Lestrade burst into the St. Barts' morgue like the hounds of hell were on his heels.

He knew Molly Hooper, had worked with her. If anything had happened to that sweet girl…

"Molly Hooper! I need to speak to Molly Hooper!" he bellowed.

The girl in question poked her head around a corner, looking frightened and confused, but unharmed, and Lestrade heaved a sigh of relief. Considering how careful Moriarty had been at covering his tracks, Ms. Hooper being dead had been a very real possibility.

"Y-yes? Inspector Lestrade? Is something the matter?"

A large, older man appeared behind her, "Molly? What's wrong?"

"Ms. Hooper, I need you to tell me everything about someone named Jim."

The girl's eyes went wide.

"Jim? But… I just reported it…"

"Reported what?"

"My boy-, well, my ex-, I mean…"

"They had a bit of a tiff, and now the lad's gone missing," the older man said.

Missing?

"He's not answering any of my e-mails, and no one's seen him all week. I tried contacting Sherlock for help, but I can't get in touch with him or his flat mate."

Of course he'd gone missing. Hard to maintain a relationship when you're busy blowing up London.

Lestrade didn't want to hurt the girl, but it was going to be necessary. He took her arm and gently led her aside.

"This Jim, is he around five-eight? Short brown hair, brown eyes?"

"Y-yes… Oh god, is he-?"

"No, no. I'm sorry, but there's not much I can tell you right now."

"Is Sherlock on the case?"

"Sherlock is in hospital," he said. "I'm here because…"

What could he say? Her missing boyfriend was a murderous psychopath? That he may very well have killed Sherlock? And that she may be next?

"Molly? What's going on?" the older man asked.

"Oh, Mike…" Ms. Hooper whispered, "It's Sherlock…"

"And you are?" Lestrade asked.

"Sorry," the man said, sticking out a hand, "Mike Stamford. I'm a friend."

He knew that name.

"You're the one who introduced them. John and Sherlock."

"Guilty as charged," Stamford chuckled. "Now what's this all about, if I might ask? Are John and Sherlock alright?"

There was no way around it. He'd have to tell them.

"This doesn't leave this room. Someone's been playing a game with Sherlock, leaving him clues to crimes and challenging him to solve them within a set time-limit. Sherlock's been taken out of the game, but it's still running. You were one of the next clues."

"Me?" Ms. Hooper asked.

"And what happens if you don't solve it within the time-limit?" asked Stamford.

"You've seen that gas explosion on the news? The one that killed twelve people?"

"Oh god… And what does Molly have to do with any of this?"

What did she have to do with it? Why did Moriarty's man send him here?

On a hunch, he pulled out the phone and showed her the picture of Shan.

"Do you know this woman?"

"I… yes," Molly replied, looked confused, "She's a Jane Doe, just came in an hour ago. Murder. I haven't had time to do an autopsy yet."

"Murder? Are you sure?"

Wordlessly, Ms. Hooper walked over to one of the morgue drawers and opened it. She pulled out a body bag, unzipping it to show him it's occupant.

General Shan lay on the table, a neat bullet hole in the center of her forehead.

"She was found in an alley down the street. I forget who's on the case…"

"I'll find out," Lestrade said, already on his phone to the Yard.

"And… there was one other thing…" Ms. Hooper said. "This was found in her mouth."

The girl held up an evidence bag containing a severed human thumb.

A/N: Sorry again for the wait guys, next chapter should be up in less than a week. I realized that I hadn't actually worked out any of the cases they need to solve, and have been going through Canon for idea. Also, maybe you all can help me: On the character websites, I know we're assuming 'Anonymous' is Jim, but did anyone ever figure out who the fanboy troll 'theimprobableone' was?


	7. Name of the Beast

Lestrade was pouring over Dimmock's case notes for the Black Lotus with Donovan when someone knocked on the door of his office.

He looked up to find Mr. Holmes standing in the doorway, a small, dark-haired woman just behind him.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes."

"Mycroft, if you please. I took the liberty of gathering background information on the snipers that you apprehended," the man said, placing a stack of papers on the desk.

"That was fast," Donovan remarked.

"Not with my connections."

Donovan raised an eyebrow in suspicion.

Lestrade went through the files carefully.

"Hopefully there'll be something in here we can use. These bastards haven't said a peep since we brought them in."

"In that case," Mr. Holmes-Mycroft extracted a sheet from the pile and handed it to him. "Ralph Redding, born August 5th, 1978. Served two tours in Iraq, and has three prior arrests for assault. Currently in custody."

Drawing another sheet out, he continued, "Aaron Whitfield, born November 13th, 1987. Currently in the morgue. He is Mr. Redding's half-brother. Evidence seems to suggest that Mr. Redding's previous arrests may have been in young Aaron's defense."

"We did a rush on ballistics. Bullet that killed this Aaron Whitfield was a probable match for the one they pulled out of Sherlock."

"But going by what John said, it means that he was killed by another one of Moriarty's men," said Donovan, "Why?"

"No doubt, Aaron knew too much. Does Mr. Redding know of his brother's demise?" Mycroft replied.

"Not as far as we know. Had him shoved into a police car before we brought out the body."

"And as for the 'game'?"

Lestrade sighed. "No time of death on Shan yet, coroner thinks she was frozen before she was dumped. Ran prints on the thumb, no hits yet. But it looks like whoever it belongs to was still alive when it was cut off."

"Perhaps, I might be able to assist?" Mycroft asked.

Abruptly, Lestrade remembered that this was Sherlock Holmes' older brother. If Mycroft had even an ounce of Sherlock's abilities…

The Inspector got out the file on the severed digit.

Mycroft scanned the photographs the coroner had taken, "Male, Caucasian, late twenties. He's an engineer of some sort, a designer, not a mechanic. Just got his degree. He's usually fairly fastidious, but over the last few days, he's been unable to care for himself properly. Probably being kept prisoner."

"Oh for god's sake, there's two of them…" Donovan muttered.

"Donovan, start looking at missing person's. It's a long shot, but at this point I'll take anything."

The sergeant left, muttering to herself all the way.

"And now," said Mycroft, "I do believe we have an appointment with Mr. Ralph Redding." 

Ralph tapped his fingers on the table impatiently. These coppers weren't going to get anything out of him. Not about the boss.

Ralph Redding was no snitch.

He should've known that something was up when Aaron had texted him. He'd had a bad feeling about the whole thing.

He glared at the two men before him. He'd seen the older one on the telly before, but the other in the suit…

He didn't like the look of that bloke in the suit. The way the fucking creep kept staring at him made him feel like he was being dissected or something.

God help Aaron, when Ralph got his hands on him, getting him into this mess. Brother or not, the lad was in for a thrashing. Beating down money collectors and girlfriends' exes were one thing, but wannabe criminal masterminds were something else entirely.

"Mr. Redding, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade," said the older man. "I know we didn't catch all of your mates. But it's only one I'm interested in. Small fellow, was wearing a grey hooded jacket."

Ralph said nothing. He was no snitch.

Wordlessly, Lestrade put a stack of photos on the table.

Ralph risked a glance down.

"Oh no, oh no no no no."

Aaron's face stared up at him with wide eyes and a neat little hole in his forehead.

"Oh fuck," he whispered.

Not Aaron. Not his sweet, stupid, over-eager little brother.

"Eyewitnesses say it was done by the man I'm looking for."

"Oh fuck. Oh that fucking bastard…"

Stupid Aaron, stupid boy. Always wanting to live life like he was in the movies.

"Such a waste, isn't it?" said Lestrade. "So young. And you being an accomplice and all…"

Accomplice? What… Oh fuck.

"You're not pinning this on me, damnit! He's my brother! I could never hurt him!"

The bastard stared him straight in the face.

"I need a name."

"I don't know any."

"Surely, Mr. Redding, you know something of your fellow employees," said the suit. "It really would be to your own benefit if you told us everything. Not to mention aiding us in the capture of your brother's murderer."

"I really don't know anything. Aaron, he was the one who was more involved in things, the stupid git. I just got texts, telling me to go here, do this. I'd never seen the boss before tonight."

"And Aaron never told you anything?"

"I…"

Ralph Redding was no snitch. But this was different. This was family.

"Moran. Sebastian Moran. Aaron was kinda close to 'im. Short, almost never speaks aloud, just whispers. He's got this freakish way of talking."

Lestrade was nodding, "That's good, what else?"

"That's it. He was nearly as bad as the boss with his face. The few times I ever saw him, he was wearing a hood and had his face covered. Last night it was goggles and a surgical mask."

"Are you quite sure that is all you can tell us?" asked the suit.

"That's it. I swear. On my soul."

"Very well then, Inspector?"

The two men left, leaving Ralph alone with the photographs of poor Aaron, staring up at him.

A/N: Well, that took long enough. The baddie is now officially named! (Yeah, I know, I said it myself in an earlier Note). Next chapter wil see the return of John, and maybe someone else as well...


	8. Back in the Game

His awareness came back slowly, one sense at a time.

The dry, disgusting taste in his mouth was first.

Smell was next, the all too familiar scent of antiseptic filling his nose.

Then came sound; the beep-beep-beep of a heart monitor, and the whoosh of a ventilator.

Touch almost caught him off-guard, a dull ache in his bones, and the scratch of hospital sheets against his skin.

Finally, all that remained was sight, and, lacking anything else to do, he opened his eyes.

"Ah, John. I see you have finally decided to rejoin us."

He was in a hospital bed, in a different room that before. Mycroft was seated at his bedside.

"What happened?" John asked.

"You've been unconscious for three hours. The doctors believe that it was a combination of exhaustion and shock, and were rather adamant that you remain in bed this time."

Carefully, John sat up and looked around, and that was when he realized that they were not alone.

Sherlock was in the bed next to his, nearly buried under a mass of tubes and wires.

"I thought that having the two of you in the same room might save the hospital some trouble," Mycroft continued, but John barely heard him.

All he could focus on was Sherlock. The man was paler than the sheets around him. There was a breathing tube down his throat, and a drainage tube emerging from under the blankets. I.V.s were stuck in both arms, and John's mind began to list all the things that were probably in them.

He could hear Mycroft talking in the background, listing all of Sherlock's injuries.

Pierced lung, broken ribs, possible concussion, bruising to the lower spine, crushed bones in the left hand, massive blood loss.

Possible oxygen deprivation.

In the back of his head, a little voice that sounded a lot like Sherlock commented about Mycroft loving the sound of his own voice.

John opened his mouth to say something, anything, but all that came out was a ragged, shaky gasp.

Mycroft continued as if he hadn't heard him, for which John found himself grateful.

"The real issue is going to be pain management. Sherlock has worked up something of a tolerance for morphine."

"It was morphine? That he was hooked on?" John asked.

Mycroft was silent for a moment. John wondered if he should have kept his mouth shut.

"He started out with painkillers and sedatives, yes," he said at last. "It was the cocaine that eventually got him into trouble."

"You're worried he'll get hooked again?"

"Actually, I'm more worried that he'll refuse medication outright."

Oh yes, he could see Sherlock doing that.

"You were right, by the way."

"What?"

"About Ms. Hooper being part of the clue. General Shan has turned up in St. Bart's morgue with a bullet in her skull."

That was good news. Sarah would be relieved when she heard. However…

"So we have to find her killer?"

"I doubt it," Mycroft replied. "The exact time of death is unknown. It seems that shortly after her death, her body was frozen. The coroner believes she may have been dead for as long as one month."

"A month?" John exclaimed. "But that would mean…"

"She was killed shortly after the affair of the 'Blind Banker', as you called it. Most likely, Moriarty had her killed because she attracted too much attention. No, General Shan is merely the next clue. She was found with a severed human thumb, not her own, stuffed into her mouth. The thumb was not frozen, and was removed from it's owner no less than two days ago, while he was still alive. Our task will be to locate him."

"This would go a lot easier with Sherlock," John whispered.

Mycroft said nothing. Again, John wondered if he'd said too much.

The two men sat in silence, watching the shallow rise and fall of Sherlock's chest.

Finally Mycroft stood, "I'm in the process of having a small command centre set up just down the hall. Hopefully it should limit the amount of running around."

Mycroft stopped at the door, turning back to John for a moment.

"Tell me John, does the name Sebastian Moran mean anything to you?"

"No… should it?"

"We believe he may be our man in grey."

And then John was alone with Sherlock, pale and still in the bed opposite.

Slowly, John raised his hands up. The left one trembled like an old man's.

He took a deep breath, and clenched his shaking hand into a fist.

Sebastian Moran.

He had a name.

His enemy had a name.

"Sebastian Moran," he whispered, "You're mine."

When he opened his fist again, it was steady as a rock.

* * *

**A/N:** Slow Ari is slooooow… What else is new? This was actually supposed to be chapter 6, but I decided to switch it around. Next chapter might take a bit, or it might not, since I just started classes, but I always do my best work while I'm supposed to be paying attention to something else. Anywho… please don't forget to review!


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